


Defying Gravity

by emmykay



Category: Doctor Strange (2016), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Crack Treated Seriously, Missing Scenes, Other, Soul Bond
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-07
Updated: 2019-10-07
Packaged: 2020-10-17 03:02:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20613875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmykay/pseuds/emmykay
Summary: "Once a relic accepts you, you need to maintain it, physically and spiritually," Mordo said.  "You become its partner, of sorts.  You develop a bond.""Bond?" Stephen asked."Some relics require a- " Mordo paused.  "Communion."





	Defying Gravity

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thedevilchicken](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilchicken/gifts).

> Based only on the 2016 movie.
> 
> Character/Pairing: Stephen Strange/Cloak of Levitation  
Prompt:  
\- the cloak has a crush on Strange; Strange realises his soulmate is sentient magical clothing; the cloak keeps replacing his bedspread at night; telepathic cloak communication; how exactly do you have sex with a cloak?

"Some magic is too powerful to sustain, so we imbue objects with it, allowing them to take the strain we cannot," Mordo said, demonstrating with the Staff of the Living Tribunal, sending sparks off his Vaulting Boots of Valtorr. 

"When do I get my relic?" Stephen asked, circling around the courtyard, Mordo mirroring his steps.

"When you're ready."

"Think I'm ready."

"You're ready when the relic decides you're ready." Mordo's face sobered. "To be ready is to understand that use of the relic bears a cost."

"What do you mean?"

"A tenet of natural law. Accept a gift, accept its privileges, accept its responsibilities. Once a relic accepts you, you need to maintain it, physically and spiritually. You become its partner, of sorts. You develop a bond."

"Bond?"

"Some relics require a - " Mordo paused. "Communion."

"Like talking to it?"

"More."

"A soul bond?"

Mordo nodded.

"Really? A soul bond?"

"Do you repeat yourself often? Do you enjoy it?" Mordo laughed.

"Seriously, a soul bond? How do you know?"

"You will know. The relic will tell you. Not every relic, but many of the most powerful have requirements from their users."

"Does that mean you talk to your boots? Do they talk back?"

A funny expression crossed Mordo's face.

Stephen decided that, yes, Mordo did talk to his boots. "Is it singly or do the boots talk to you in stereo?"

"Each relic is unique, as it what they ask of their wielder. You'll discover. _If_ a relic comes to you." Mordo's tone indicated his distinct disbelief that that day would ever come for Stephen. "Now, conjure a weapon."

* * *

It was the cloak that noticed him first. 

Calling out, "Hello," Stephen walked through the gallery at the New York Sanctum, looking at the relics, noticing but not really getting more than an impression of the space, filled with glass cases of the most amazing, ancient items, when some movement caught his eye. A kind of weight settled at the base of his neck. Not physical, more like the sensation of being fully seen.

His own eyes moved up and down a high-collared red cloak as it turned toward him, giving the impression of being greeted, of rising to meet him moving toward him, until it was stopped by the glass of its case. _ Nice cloak,_ he thought.

That weight grew heavier. He shook his head. The weight, the feeling, didn't move. What was this?

Then Kaecilius and the Xealots entered the Sanctum's foyer.

He fought, with the skills Mordo worked so hard to instill in him. But he was losing. Glass shattered as display case after case fell in on him as Kaecilius threw him through the relic room. He didn't even notice which case, until the cloak stopped Kaecilius. Twice.

That wasn't enough, felt like it wasn't enough, until the cloak saved him, flinging itself on top of him, wrapping about his shoulders, the psychic weight turning into actual weight, then lifting him up to the top of the stairs. Then, embarrassingly, it fought him, hauling him about like an unruly puppy, the weight pounding at the back of his neck until an image flashed in his head of it - it! - wanted. The thing that looked like something between a fish skeleton and bondage gear.

He threw the weird medieval fish-bondage armor at Kaecilius. The armor trapped him.

Huh. Just because the cloak was correct didn't mean Stephen was wrong.

The weight shifted, feeling lighter, like a tickle. _Was the cloak laughing at him?_

Then the cloak saved him again, wrapping around one of the zealots, allowing him to escape to the hospital. When Stephen fought the astral form of the zealot, he could still feel the weight on his neck - which should not happen because he was in his astral body and his physical body wasn't even wearing the cloak - but while made no damn sense, it was simultaneously also comforting, grounding, even as the 360 joules of electricity shot through his body and into the zealot.

He relaxed. The weight settled deeper against his neck, the top of his shoulders. And he knew it was the cloak, somehow, still with him. He knew he would return to the hallway he had left, and when he did, it would be there, waiting for his return.

* * *

The zealot's body lay on the floor. Stephen checked his pulse. Nothing. The man was dead.

Without looking, he put his hand up, and the cloak came to him, draping itself over him.

"The Cloak of Levitation," Mordo said, gesturing to Stephen. "It came to you." 

Stephen didn't know how to respond. More than coming to him, the Cloak had aided his movements, it didn't just follow, it adjusted to his wants, assisted his survival.

Ancient One said, "No minor feat. It's a fickle thing."

Stephen could tell something was up. "Is it me or me wearing the Cloak that you find funny?"

"Every relic is unique, but the Cloak is very powerful," she said. "I don't know all the particulars of the Cloak - merely that it is singular in its choice of wearer. You should be honored." Shortly after, she left to get reinforcements, leaving him, unbelievably, as Master of the New York sanctum.

Well, she probably only meant to have him hold down the fort until she got back. More likely, Mordo to hold down the fort.

There was a sudden chill on his back. Stephen turned and the Cloak slid off, exposing a large rip in the lining. "Ahhh," he grumbled. "How am I supposed to fix this?" He looked at Mordo.

"Oh, no," Mordo said, holding his hands up. "Your relic, your responsibility. Although, if I remember correctly, there is a workroom on the third floor that might contain some useful supplies."

There was an impression of a dresser in his back of Stephen's head, as the Cloak poked him in the back. "All right, all right." He went off in search.

After combing through the dozens of little drawers, he found one full of red scraps, another of needles, and yet still another filled with spools of dozens of types of thread. He looked at his hands, better than before but still shaky, with scars layered upon each other. He tugged the Cloak off and looked at it as it floated in front of him. It was surprisingly big, but being big enough to drape over him as much as it did should not have engendered the kind of astonishment he was going through. If it were normal cloth, it would probably weigh a ton. He really looked at the details, taking in its seemingly hundreds of shades of red, its different patterns that moved from squares to tilted swirls, its intricate embroidery, its fantastical beadwork. "I can't do this."

The Cloak tilted its collar to one side. 

"I used to, I was the best, but now - I just can't."

It reached forward to poke him again.

He lifted his damaged hands. "You see this? You want to these on you?"

The Cloak draped itself across a table, the ripped section completely exposed.

"You asked for it." He tried to pick up a needle, but the tremor in his hands caused the paper backing to shiver, scattering several needles across the floor. Tightening his lips, he went for the thread. He could grab a spool, easy enough, but even the thicker floss was too fine for his fingers. "Goddammit!"

The Cloak rolled itself on its side and waited.

Stephen breathed hard through his nose. He couldn't even manage a needle and thread. Even taking into account that surgical needles came with the suture material attached, he couldn't even approach this task, which had once been so much a part of his work that he had performed it mindlessly, something that was a part of actions that were much more complicated. What did the Cloak want from him?

He felt its presence, endlessly patient on the table.

What could he do? He couldn't leave the Cloak like this, not when he could feel that pressure on him, not when it had saved his life, multiple times.

A corner of the Cloak lifted itself up, wrapped around his arm, gently stroking the skin of his inner wrist, soothing.

Well, it was a magic cloak. He reached up to grasp the Eye of Agamotto. As he leaned over, the Cloak twisted and pulled away, scrambling to the edge of the table, as if it were a cat being introduced to the idea of a bath.

"No?"

The Cloak vigorously shook its collar and shoulder area, signaling a negative. Stephen felt a worry that was not his own.

"Okay. I promise I won't use the Eye."

The Cloak approached and lay down again.

He picked a piece of fabric that looked about the right size and put it on the tear. Absently, he noticed how clean the Cloak was, for however old it was. Maybe some kind of spell, or was it something the Cloak did itself? He put his face right down on its surface and sniffed. Not much, but maybe just the lightest hint of something animal/human/must; it pinged a vague sense of comfort, familiar in the way an old, much used and loved blanket is when it re-emerges from the back of a closet.

Maybe Stephen was imagining it, but the Cloak abruptly stiffened, as if it had been frozen solid on the spot. Did it sense his thoughts and became offended at the comparison to an old blanket? "Sorry," he said, "I didn't mean it." The Cloak settled down on the table again, as if nothing happened. _Huh._ He'd offended a lot - _a lot_ \- of people in his life and career, but this was the first time he'd offended anyone - anything - just with the power of his own thoughts. Was he going to have to watch his own thoughts now?

As the Cloak froze again, Stephen thought, Yes, he was going to have to watch his own thoughts. He really did not want to offend the Cloak. "Sorry, sorry," he apologized again. "I am trying to be sincere. I just, uh, haven't had a lot of practice."

In apparent forgiveness, the Cloak lay down, albeit a tad slowly, in front of him. Stephen moved the scrap fabric around the lining, trying to find a way to best line up the edges, the Cloak arranged itself under his hands. The slow, growing sensation in the back of his head felt like acceptance, and then, gentle pleasure. He paused. He wondered if he could get that feeling from the Cloak again. 

He petted it deliberately, his fingers trailing over the different textures of the fabric. While areas of numbness still caused him to curse the carelessness of the accident, and he might have forever lost the sensitivity that had made him a great surgeon, he had regained enough feeling to be able to tell the difference between the Cloak's basic double woven wool to the cool silken patches to the heavily flocked velvet.

The Cloak gave a physical expression equivalent of a groan of pleasure as it stretched languorously under his hands. Only when he moved his hands off the Cloak, did it slowly retract back to its original size, relaxing against the table.

So. There was this. _Is this what you mean by communion, Mordo?_

Then he placed his hands together. The first time he drew them apart, the energy was much too strong, expressing as thick bands more suitable for warfare than the delicacy of repair. He let the bands disperse in a shower of sparks. He tried again, feeling the psychic forces much more carefully, letting the energy flow instead of gather, pulling out gossamer golden strands of magic out of the air, far far finer than any thread. As he leaned over, the Cloak seemingly flinched away.

"Oh no. Hold still, you big baby."

Shimmering strands pierced the fabric, tunneling through in simple interrupted stitch, sealing the scrap of fabric to the lining as the strands worked their way through. With magic, he thought, intent was almost as good as steady hands. After he finished up with a rather extravagant final throw for a simple square knot, the Cloak shifted and it appeared to be inspecting the work that was just completed. The repair, Stephen was pleased to note, was not too shabby for a first time.

The Cloak seemed to agree, as he was presented with a worn area towards the bottom of the its exterior.

"You want me to look at this? I think I can do something here."

This repair was better, more of a darn and less of a seam. Still, once the magic worked its way in, the fix was virtually unnoticeable. When he was done with that, the Cloak shifted yet again.

"This too, huh?"

An agreeable metaphysical touch against his neck urged him onward. This time, it was a very small break in a thread in an area of heavy quilting.

"There didn't seem to be much to fix," he said. "You want me to kiss it and make it better?"

The Cloak stilled.

Stephen laughed. "You do."

The Cloak flipped a corner towards him, and if that gesture meant what it would mean from any New Yorker to any other New Yorker… Stephen began to grin.

A sudden rumble in the floor beneath them signaled nothing good.

"Strange!" Mordo yelled. "They have returned!"

The Cloak flung itself toward Stephen as he rushed to find the source of the disturbance.

* * *

The Ancient One was dead. There was nothing modern medicine could have done to save her. 

He knew what he had to do. He could not stay, not for Christine, not for himself.

But he did not want to leave.

The Cloak hung in attendance, coming toward Stephen as he finished washing his hands. It landed on his shoulders and wiped away his tears.

He didn't even know he had been crying. That anyone - anything - had known he had cried over a death, over the end of an old relationship, over the decision he had to walk away from his old life. It was embarrassing.

"Stop," he hissed, trying to be commanding. "Stop it."

The Cloak, defiant, went for another swipe across his cheek.

Had it only been a day? When he had woken this morning, he would have never imagined he would have gone from Kamar-Taj to New York, had fought Kaecilius, received a relic, and then witnessed the death of the Sorcerer Supreme.

"A lack of imagination," he mused. "That's me."

After the past year, he should have been able to give it all up, been inured to a life free of the sin of attachment. After all, he had given up what he had thought was his life, and all the people and things that included, before. But that surrender hadn't been real before. He hadn't given up the really difficult things; his ego, his fear, his desire for control. He hung his head. He sighed. "How," he murmured. "How do I?"

A flutter beside his head drew his attention. The Cloak? He tensed. The Cloak wrapped around him, a gentle squeeze, and at the pressure the Cloak applied, he relaxed.

Then he felt the shift inside his head, a gentle warmth slipping down his back, spreading through his heart, throughout his limbs.

Oh.

_Oh._

The Cloak's presence was melting into his bones, his abdomen, running through his veins and arteries. His soul. Nothing else had ever felt like this. No one had never reached him like this.

He really could have never imagined this is what it - what communion - felt like. Wholeness when he didn't even know he was missing anything.

He felt the Cloak's amusement. He soaked that sensation in for the barest moment before his thoughts were interrupted, and like that, he felt its nudge.

There was no time.

To Hong Kong.

* * *

There was one way to save the Earth, and all its people. He pulled out the Eye of Agamotto. "I'm sorry," he said quietly. "I know you don't like -" 

The Cloak pressed against his shoulders, reassuring, solid, warm.

Stephen stepped forward. With his Cloak, he flew toward the black maw of Dormammu's dimension as the darkness attempted to swallow their own in entirety.

* * *

Had it only been a day? Did it even count as a single day? Not for him. Not for the Cloak. 

So much had happened. They had saved the Hong Kong Sanctum, Mordo had abandoned the path of the Ancient One. Stephen had fought Dormammu, and died and returned and died and returned and died endlessly, until he had won. The Cloak had been with him the entire time.

He returned the Eye of Agamotto to Kamar-Taj. It was a wrench to give up something so powerful, but it had to be done.

Maybe he would return for it later, but for now, it was safer here. Besides, the Cloak didn't like the Eye.

Despite his bold words to Wong about their readiness to defend the Earth against beings of the multiverse, Stephen was really hoping there would not be a test. At least not tonight.

Exhausted, Stephen returned to the New York Sanctum, undressed down to his lightest layer, and collapsed in a convenient bedroom. He lifted his hand, and felt the Cloak come to him.

It draped over his side. He closed his eyes, but felt restless. He shifted from side to side. The Cloak reached over and stroked his cheek, trying to calm him.

He got up again, walking to the window.

After a while, the Cloak floated up next to him. A corner of red fabric wrapped around Stephen's wrist, tugging him gently back to bed. He sat down heavily on the side. He rubbed his face, his hand trembling. "I'm thinking too hard. I can see why you're not such a fan of the Eye of Agamotto. I can't not think about what happened - that time loop. Over and over. And over." He sighed. "I want to stop thinking."

The Cloak rose up over him, and suddenly, it grasped his wrists in both hands. Before he could exclaim his surprise, it slid him up against the headboard, still seated, both hands pinned up on the wall behind the bed. Surprised, he tried pushing against the fabric.

"What - " the Cloak held a fold over his lips. The memory of the warmth of the moment of soulbonding returned to him, flooding his body, filling his groin. The Cloak waited, Stephen could feel the anticipation of a reaction, but Stephen was not resisting. "Yes," he said, surrendering. "Yes." 

The Cloak rose to fill his vision, rubbing up against his face and neck, putting an unaccustomed and welcomed weight on his lap. Stephen felt himself starting to stiffen against the anxious little movements. Parts of the red fabric, soft and supple as skin, slid under his clothing, plucking at his waistband. He felt the silk and velvet against his bare skin, sliding across his nipples, down his stomach, going from cool to plush heat in moments.

The Cloak must have some kind of sympathetic magic with other fabric, because of the way Stephen's clothing came loose and opened up. He was lifted upward, and found himself levitating a foot over over the bed. One hand was let downward and guided into his lap, so he came to grasp his hardened cock over the waistband of his pants, tentatively at first, and then harder as the Cloak seemed to be encouraged by it. It was practically vibrating as it yanked off the rest of his clothes.

It was not enough.

Wait," he gasped. He tried to imagine when he wanted. He must have gotten it right, as the Cloak relaxed its grip, and he brought his hand to his mouth, and he licked his palm, generously gathering saliva. He returned his thumb to rub across the tip of his penis, rubbing the slick fluid into the skin, using it to ease the rest of the slide of his hand. 

The Cloak copied the motion, and then wrapped over both his hand and his cock, squeezing, stroking, encouraging. The material of the Cloak felt satiny, slicker than fabric had any right to feel against his skin, more of it surrounding his legs, wrapping around them firmly, then stretching his thighs apart. Another fold came up under his sack, and another pressed against his perineum, down to skim over his hole, then firmly push up against, a knot catching the edge of his rim. Under his skin, he could feel the thrum of the Cloak's pleasure at his pleasure, which excited him further which intensified the Cloak's pleasure - a feedback loop that expanded throughout his body. It was too much sensation, too much pressure in all the right places, too warm, his skin felt sweaty, he felt like he was bursting open.

Panting, overheating, he began to gasp, his mouth open as he tried to draw in enough air to breathe. Abruptly, the Cloak stuffed part of itself into his mouth, and Stephen bit down, wanting to scream, feeling like he had to scream, screaming, feeling like he had been launched into air, his body obliterated, and came and came and came. Returning to himself, he found the Cloak had pulled itself out of his mouth, and rubbing his arms and back as they were lowered back onto the bed. He shivered in the Cloak's embrace as the small shocks running through his nervous system slowed. In good time, the Cloak swept along his lap, Stephen sleepily noting that it was wiping him clean.

It curled up on top of him, gentling him, spread out and limp, the weight, still surprising, a pleasant anchor against the bed.

"Good night," he said. A smile touched Stephen's lips. He certainly felt taken care of, physically and spiritually.

Before a final drowsy wave overtook Stephen, he said, "Thank you. For saving my life. For being with me. For everything."

A corner of the Cloak rose and touched his cheek before it snuggled up further against him.

* * *

Stephen slowly surfaced from sleep, wrapped in the timeless darkness of deep night, feeling warm and comfortable in a way that he hadn't for a long long while. The Cloak stirred, making small kittenish movements against his skin.

He spread a hand against it. The Cloak stretched and relaxed. He grinned to himself before diving back into sleep. What kind of things must Mordo do with those boots?

**Author's Note:**

> From an interview with costume designer Alexandra Byrne: 
> 
> _Tell us about the Cloak of Levitation._  
What I’d learned from doing the red cloak in “Thor” is that no matter how much you draw it, a cloak, a cape or anything like it is, in the end, the reality of the draping. So it was very much about making prototypes in the workroom, shapes, and how they would hang. We had a small graveyard of red fabric, because you don’t know really how it’s going to behave until you’ve got it a long way down the road.
> 
> _What about the cloak’s intricate red material?_  
The cloak itself is a hundred shades of red, there are so many textures and fabrics and shades of material. The original material is a double weave of wool I found at a show in Paris made in Japan, and even the material’s weave has three shades of red in it. The cloak has so many processes. Some of it is frocked with velvet. It’s embroidered. It has various piles in it. Even after it’s all finished, then it goes to my textile department where it’s aged and degraded so it doesn’t look like a new piece of costume plopped on someone; it has a lot more shadow and character in it. And, yes, Benedict did have a good time wearing it.  
https://www.latimes.com/entertainment/envelope/la-en-mn-0110-costumes-dr-strange-20170110-story.html


End file.
